


Sincerely Yours

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Letters, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Letters, Wartime Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: Daenerys and Jon only spent a few months together before he was sent off to war. Now, as she goes about her daily life in London, she wonders if he even remembers her. But a surprise letter may hold all the answers she needs.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 94
Kudos: 426





	Sincerely Yours

Daenerys doesn’t sleep that night.

The basement is warm, and humid. Her skin is clammy beneath the thin covers. She wants to move, and scratch, and stretch, yet she barely dares to stir. The bunk beds are made of metal. A cough makes them all rattle. It is nothing in comparison to the bombs; when they fall over London, the walls seem to close in, dust fills the air, and the sound of people running down the stairs echoes in the hallway.

But it’s a ritual. Like pulling twice at the door handle to check that you locked the flat. If she remains still and breathes silently, perhaps nothing bad will happen hundreds of miles away. She knows it doesn’t make sense. She does it anyway. In the darkness, surrounded by her sleeping colleagues, she feels alone. She imagines he does too; in a trench somewhere, with the stench of gunpowder and death filling his lungs.

If she could speak, she would say: “I miss you,” and he would reply:

“I miss you too,” and she would take his hand, rough and bloody and cold, and kiss every knuckle with the promise:

“I am here, I am yours,” and in the blackness he would reply:

“Sincerely yours.”

She could cry. She blinks away the feeling.

Missandei wakes her with a shake. “Good morning,” she says.

Daenerys stares up at the ceiling. Someone has turned the light on. It is sharp, and it hums, like a machine churning. She looks at her friend. She doesn’t manage a smile. “Morning.”

“Didn’t sleep? Me neither.” Missandei is standing on the lower bed, her arms resting on the metal frame of Daenerys’ upper bunk. “I kept thinking they were bombing the city.”

“Were they not?”

“Who knows,” Missandei yawns. She sends Daenerys a tired look as she says: “Every night seems the same down here.”

“Mhmm,” Daenerys mumbles, dragging her eyes back up, “it does.” In the light, she can see the perspiration. It runs down the concrete in streams. She can taste salt on her lips, but her cheeks feel dry.

_Sweat,_ Daenerys decides as she slowly makes her way out of bed, careful not to bump her head. The ceiling is low. The floor is sticky. In the room of forty women, she dresses quietly and quickly. Her blue dress is worn but professional. She misses the smell of clean laundry. She chastises herself for thinking about it. When she climbs the stairs to the theatre hall, it’s with Missandei by her side.

“Did you hear from your mum?” Missandei asks. She is dressed in green. Her curls bounce around her shoulders when they walk. She turns and greets people as they pass them by, but her gaze always slips back to Daenerys.

Daenerys grimaces and eyes her flat shoes. “She called. Yesterday.”

“Does she still want you to come home?”

“She worries for my life. Dad just cares about my job. _Radio is the work for men,_ he says. Never mind that most of our men are too busy fighting to sit in front of a microphone!”

Missandei laughs. In a makeshift kitchen, she gets them two cups of tea. The people of Criterion Theatre are waking up; all around the halls, men in crinkled suits and women with sleep on their lashes mull about, chattering, chuckling. They find two spare chairs in an empty cloakroom and settle with their drinks. “Does he not like our shows?”

“He doesn’t like the radio at all. He only trusts the newspapers.”

“They’re barely publishing any!”

“I know.” Daenerys blows steam off her tea and sends her friend a knowing look. “So you can imagine what the old man does - fills the gaps with his own ideas. He thinks all of London will be a ruin by the end of the year.”

“Well, maybe he’s not far off,” Missandei says quietly as she watches the doorway, “or we wouldn’t be here.”

Daenerys doesn’t reply, but she feels a tug at her heart. _She is right,_ she thinks, sipping her tea, _what_ are _we doing here?_

_Broadcasting._ Daenerys never imagined she would enter a field. Growing up, she was content with the life her parents had envisioned for her: meet someone, get married, have children, manage the house. Yet here she is, sleeping and eating and working in the same space every day, bringing entertainment to the people of Britain. She doesn’t love it, but it’s something to do. It is better than being idle. When she sits still for too long, she starts thinking, and when she starts thinking, she thinks of-

“-Jon?” Missandei is watching her.

Daenerys snaps back to reality as she stares at her friend. “What?” His name makes her heart beat quicker. She feels cold and hot all at once. “What did you say?”

Missandei looks at her kindly. “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you? Of Jon?” she asks.

“What makes you say that?”

“You haven’t touched your tea.”

“We only just got it,” Daenerys starts, but she spots the empty cup in Missandei’s hands. Her own is cold. The water is tasteless against her lips. She sighs. She puts it aside and runs her fingers through her hair, desperate to have something to hold on to.

“I get it,” Missandei says. She’s looking into her empty cup. When she turns it, bits of tea leaves drag down the bottom in patterns. “I miss Grey. I sometimes wonder if he hears my shows, if he recognises my voice.”

“I am sure he does,” Daenerys says with a faint smile.

Missandei reaches over. She places her hand on Daenerys’ knee as she catches her gaze and says: “And I am sure Jon does the same.”

Daenerys peers back at her. Her friend’s eyes are golden and warm. She finds she can’t look into them for too long. Her eyes prickle. She stares hardly at the floor as she braids her locks. “It’s different,” she says after a few seconds pause, “for the two of you. You’re _married.”_

“Time doesn’t determine love,” Missandei reminds her, “people do.”

“But two months is all I have,” Daenerys replies before she can stop herself. She breathes in.

She remembers him: Jon Snow, young and handsome and charismatic. Soft black curls. Strong grey eyes. Sweet gentle smile. Poor, but happy. They swapped fancy restaurants for picnics on the rooftop of his rented studio flat. He knew all the constellations. She would listen to him just to linger on his voice.

She breathes out. “It is better not to think about it,” she says.

Missandei’s hand is still on her leg. It squeezes her a bit more tightly. “Are you okay?” she asks.

Daenerys wants to shake her head. She nods. She smiles. “I’m fine,” she lies. Her fingers slip from her hair. Her braids are perfect in a simple updo. When she stands, they don’t move an inch. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

_Two months._ Daenerys had almost forgotten how short their time together was. When she thinks back, it seems like years. Months of holding hands and flirting, dancing in bars and stealing kisses in alleys, trips to the seaside and sunny drives down country lanes. All men before Jon became boys. In his eyes, she saw her future.

But one broadcast changed all of that. _This country is at war._ She can still hear Chamberlain’s quiet voice in her ears. She can still see Jon’s darkened face before her. They knew days before the announcement, like a truth unspoken. But the words made it real. The kiss on the train station, the scent of his fresh uniform, the feeling of his rough stubble against her soft cheek, his arms stretching out of the window for her - that made it true.

Daenerys looks at the papers in her hands. They are full of words. She reads them twice. She still doesn’t recognise them. Her mind is elsewhere - buzzing, churning. She tries to focus on the microphone instead. Her breath is stuck in her throat.

Missandei is by her side. She is speaking, her warm voice broadcasting live. It fills the theatre hall and seems to drown out any noise. She is focused. She is professional. She doesn’t look away from her script once. “We have once more been sorting through the letters received from listeners this past week and picked a few of our favourites. The first one is from Miss Poole in Dorset.”

Daenerys flips a page. She breathes out. A lock of her silver hair has loosened. It dances in front of her eyes.

Missandei looks at her. The smile on her lips is soft. “Daenerys, would you please read Miss Poole’s letter?”

“Of course.” Daenerys feels panicked. She manages to control her voice. As her cheeks flush, Missandei reaches over and nudges the right piece of paper forward in her hand. She takes a hold of it. She breathes in. She reads: “This is a greeting for-”

_Jon Snow._ She used to play with his name, fantasize about making it her own. Daenerys Snow. Daenerys Targaryen Snow. _Mrs Snow._ She liked the sound of it. She likes the sound of it. But before it only brought her joy. Now, the words turn mushy in her head, like a book read in the rain. Loved, but ruined.

“-my hope for the future. With regards, Miss Poole.” Daenerys finishes the letter.

Missandei turns to the microphone. “Thank you, Miss Poole, for those inspiring words. Next, I’d like to read a letter addressed to-”

_My dad._ Daenerys sees his face; angry, upset, watching her as she hauls her luggage down the stairs. He never forgave her for moving to London. It nearly broke her mother’s heart. But when she stepped off the train and saw Jon in the crowd, none of it mattered. They were together. Who could’ve known it would only last weeks?

“-with love, Mr Mormont.” Missandei flips the paper over. Her eyes scan the next letter. “I think we have time for one more. This letter comes from-”

_London._ How can one feel alone in a city? With Jon, Daenerys sensed the streets were endless roads of opportunities. Without him, all she sees is poverty and greed and brawls. For the last month, she hasn’t seen anything at all; stuck inside the theatre, broadcasting during the day and hiding away from the bombs in the basement at night, her life has become routine. Breathe in, breathe out. Jon was spontaneous. Her days now have structure. Breathe in, breathe out. Drink the same tea, eat the same food, read the same letters. Rinse and repeat. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Daenerys.”

Daenerys stirs. Missandei is watching her intensely. She licks her lips and blinks. “Yes?”

“Would you like to read the last letter?” Missandei asks. She’s handing her the paper. It seems dirty, and crumbled, and the ink is blotted.

Daenerys doesn’t feel like reading. She can taste bile in her throat. Jon has taken over her head, and she can’t seem to let go of his image. She still takes the letter. She politely says: “Of course - thank you, Missandei,” and fixes her eyes on the small words. She breathes in, she breathes out. Then, she reads:

_“My dearest, I see you now; with your big, confident eyes and that air of determination you always have about you. In fact, I hear it; your voice carries far, and the strength it gives me is undeniable. I say to the boys - do you hear her? That’s my girl! It makes them laugh. I am not embarrassed. How could I be ashamed of love? It is more true than anything here.”_

Daenerys pauses. She sends Missandei an odd look, but her friend merely waves for her to continue. She breathes in. She goes on:

_“There is a beautiful full moon tonight. Look at it and know that I am well, and I’m better yet thinking that you’re looking at it too. There is no more distance between us than were we walking different streets in London. We are together apart, a parallel existence, but heading for the same goal.”_

Daenerys pauses again. Her hands are shaking slightly. She is not sure why, but something about the letter is sending shivers down her spine. She licks her lips. Her mouth feels parched. She continues once more:

_“Is it odd to say that I have discovered happiness? I always sensed it would come, of course, but it is now that I know I’ve felt it for certain. It is simple; a hand in mine, a kiss on my cheek, my girl by my side. We are on the rooftop of my studio having our cheap picnic-”_

Daenerys gasps. Her hand clasps over her mouth. She stares at the letter. She stares at Missandei. Her friend is smiling. But there’s a new softness to her face. Daenerys realises: _she knows._ When she glances down at the letter, her hand shaking even more, almost unable to cling onto the paper, she knows that so did she. From the moment she started reading, _she knew,_ instinctively. She almost can’t go on at pace. When she continues, her voice is breathlessly quick:

_“-cheap picnic, and all that matters is that we’re together. That is happiness, that is love. I know this for certain now. Two months! I hope you won’t laugh. Two months, you must be thinking, and this silly man has imagined himself in your future? Yes, yes! I have. From the moment our eyes met to the moment our hands parted, the train taking off too soon for my liking, I have firmly forgotten my past and present. It’s the future I see; us, a home, a child. I don’t have much to give, but we wouldn’t need much - a smile from you will keep my heart beating, and I’d work myself to the bone to obtain it.”_

Daenerys breathes in. She breathes out. She can feel it - the prickling in her eyes. It is the same as this morning when she thought of him. Jon, in the trenches, dark and alone. But now the images brighten. He is somewhere safe, writing with humour and joy, with hope and passion. His face is no longer in the blackness. It peers through the shadows, and his eyes gleam, and his lips smile.

She closes her eyes. Her nostrils tremble. She opens her eyes. Her sight is blurry. When she continues, it is slowly again, her voice forced to carry on:

_“I haven’t got much time, so I will leave you with this: remember that I love you. It looks foolish in writing, perhaps, a poor substitution for when I will speak it to you again. But until that day comes - and it will come soon! - know that I love you. You are in my heart. I miss you. Sincerely yours-”_

“Jon Snow.” Daenerys speaks his name in a different breath. She tastes salt on her lips. _Tears._ They are rolling down her cheeks, dripping from her chin, blotting the ink on the paper.

At her side, Missandei’s arm slips around her shoulders, and she pulls her in for a hug. Daenerys sobs to her dress. Her hollow crying echoes into the microphone, she is sure of it, and she fights, tries to contain herself, even with her cheeks wet and red and raw as she turns to face it once more.

The room around them is quiet. Anyone involved in the broadcast is listening, watching, waiting to see what she’ll do next. So Daenerys breathes in. She breathes out. She smiles. This time, it feels genuine on her lips.

“Many thanks for that lovely letter, Mr Snow,” she says, her voice shivering a little, “I believe there is just one thing to say: I am here, I am yours. Please come home safe.”

Music plays. Vera Lynn’s voice is taking over the broadcast. As Daenerys walks the steps down the stage, her knees trembling and her hand firmly clutching the letter, it is to the tones of _We’ll Meet Again:_

> _We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when_
> 
> _But I know we'll meet again some sunny day._

Daenerys stops in the hallway. It is empty. There are noises all around her - from every room, people are chatting, preparing broadcasts, reading letters, noting the news. But for once, she doesn’t feel alone in this grand building in the midst of London. She feels close, even hundreds of miles apart she feels close to him.

She brings the letter to her face. She presses a kiss to his name, now rubbed into the paper, the ink barely readable, and she knows Missandei was right: time doesn’t determine love, people do. And they have both made their decision.

**Author's Note:**

> Today's Inktober prompt was "Radio", and both DragonandDirewolf and I immediately thought of the role the radio played during wartime. It led me to research what life was like in a broadcasting house during WW2, and I read some fascinating stories which I simply had to take a Jonerys spin on. The title of the story stems from a wartime radio show by Vera Lynn called 'Sincerely Yours'. Hope you liked it!
> 
> When DragonandDirewolf asked me what sort of artpiece I imagined could go with the story, I said: "You know that soldier kissing a girl out of a train?" She immediately knew what I meant and created something similar. Do you all recognise it too? Such a sweet scene that breaks my heart! The longing must have been suffocating.
> 
> Tomorrow, we'll be going further back in time to one of my favourite periods.. hope to see you then! Thank you so much for all your support on our collabs so far. I'm humbled some of you have taken the time to read them all! I feel truly blessed by your support!


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